


late night lullabies

by petalprose



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, T for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/pseuds/petalprose
Summary: The walls of Aziraphale’s apartment building are dreadfully thin. One would think that on a Friday night, he would be hearing the most scandalous sounds physically possible from hisflash bastardof a neighbour (the man had called himself as much when he’d introduced himself to Aziraphale upon moving in) and/or said neighbour’s possible partner, but at 9:57 in the evening, that’s not what he hears drifting through the walls.Instead, he’s hearing the cries of a baby, and loud, desperate attempts at a lullaby.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 125





	late night lullabies

The walls of Aziraphale’s apartment building are dreadfully thin. One would think that on a Friday night, he would be hearing the most scandalous sounds physically possible from his _flash bastard_ of a neighbour (the man had called himself as much when he’d introduced himself to Aziraphale upon moving in) and/or said neighbour’s possible partner, but at 9:57 in the evening, that’s not what he hears drifting through the walls.

Instead, he’s hearing the cries of a baby, and loud, desperate attempts at a lullaby.

Anthony J Crowley, Aziraphale’s next-door neighour, was a man of suave smirks and scalding black coffee cups, meticulously put-together outfits and carefully styled hair. Aziraphale can hardly reconcile his image of the man—gathered together after brief glances in the hallway, short periods standing next to Crowley in the elevator, brusque _morning, Fell_ s and _good morning, Crowley_ s—with the new detail of discordant _rock-a-bye baby_ notes. And he’s never seen Crowley with a child, either, or with someone who could reasonably be the guardian of a child.

Aziraphale is frozen, dithering on his comfortable sofa, and then he’s up; standoffish, intimidating neighbour Crowley may seem, but it’s late, and he sounds distressed, and the poor child, too! Aziraphale makes cocoa and pours it into his tartan-patterned thermos as fast as the laws of physics allow him, and then he’s off before he can think better of it.

“Hello, Crowley? It’s Fell from next door,” he calls as he knocks. Crowley answers on the fourth knock, the most dishevelled Aziraphale has ever seen him. The exhaustion almost wins out over the surprise in his eyes, and it takes him a few more seconds than Aziraphale thinks is usual to process his neighbour’s sudden presence at his doorstep. He’s still got his sunglasses on, Aziraphale observes. The baby is clinging to him, held in his arms, still crying.

Eventually, Crowley says, brows furrowed, “Evening, Fell. Sorry if the baby woke you up.”

Aziraphale had not planned this far ahead. “Ah, yes,” he stammers, and with an internal wince, tries again. “I mean, no. the child hadn’t awoken me, no need to worry about that, only, I am—concerned. You both sound very distressed.” He holds the tartan thermos in front of him. He is not quite sure whether he means it as a defence or an offering.

“Distressed is one word for it,” says Crowley. There’s an awkward silence, awkwardness enhanced by the baby’s hiccups and silence diminished by the exact same sound. Crowley sighs, adjusts his hold to free a hand for dragging down his face, and points at the thermos. Aziraphale has begun to fiddle with it. “What’ve you got there?” Crowley asks.

“I’ve brought you some cocoa,” says Aziraphale, at the same time. Crowley’s mouth shuts, and his eyebrows rise above his sunglasses. Aziraphale powers on. “I’ve only ever seen you with coffee, but it’s far too late in the evening for that, and I imagine you’ll be needing all the sleep you can get, what with…your… child,” says Aziraphale, going through the last few words haltingly, keeping his eyes on Crowley’s face to see how he reacts. He holds the thermos up higher.

To Aziraphale’s immense shock and horror, Crowley’s face scrunches up. When Crowley reaches up hand up and rubs at his eyes under his shades, Aziraphale knows it must be from tearing up. “Sorry,” says Crowley, voice scratchy, rough. He drops his hand and takes the thermos from Aziraphale slowly, as though afraid of dropping it. He breathes out, cradling the baby in one arm and holding the thermos in his other hand, and says, “Fuck, Fell, you’ve got no idea how much this means to me.”

“Well, it never hurts to be kind,” says Aziraphale, for lack of anything better to say. He refrains from acting upon his knee-jerk impulse to scold Crowley for swearing around a baby. It was too young to pick it up, anyway, and the crying had probably drowned the expletive out, as much as it had calmed. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Crowley straightens up in the doorway, adjusting his hold on the baby. “No, we’re good,” he says, but before he even finishes speaking the baby’s crying kicks up once again, coming close to drowning out his voice. What is visible of his face goes through a series of pained contortions.

“If there is something you don’t have I could bring for you,” Aziraphale tries, “or run out to get for you, or—“

“What I don’t have is a way to make the kid _happy,_ ” says Crowley, and it’s got an undercurrent of frustration, his shoulders going stiff. he goes on, evidently using the outburst as an opportunity to vent. Even as he speaks, though, he’s holding the child carefully, swaying so slightly Aziraphale is sure he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “He’s been crying nonstop since this afternoon, and I don’t need you to go to the shops, I, I got baby formula right after—I got him diapers, and a crib, and I just finished setting that up, and I got him a carrier and those baby slings, but I _don’t_ have any knowledge on how to raise a child!” his voice has raised by the end, and as soon as he realizes, he seems to deflate. “Damn,” he mutters, and gives a heaving sigh. “Sorry. All you wanted was to give me some cocoa and I just. Unloaded all that on you. Been a long day. You should just…” he waves to the next door over, Aziraphale’s door, indicating that Aziraphale should return to his flat.

Aziraphale is having none of it. “I offered to help you,” he says. He hadn’t thought he’d do much more than awkwardly offer his neighbour a thermos and return to his flat, but as he says the words he finds he means them. Crowley looks awful; there isn’t any sugar-coating the stress lining his frame. “Whether that means running to the supermarket and buying you a specific brand of baby formula, or simply making you cocoa.”

The baby goes quiet. Crowley looks down at him, a hand smoothing over his back. He rocks back on the balls of his feet before looking back at Aziraphale with a sigh. “Suppose I should just take you up on your offer,” he says. He steps back, leaving the door open for Aziraphale as he goes further into his home. “This is the calmest he’s ever gotten, you know. In the time that I’ve had him. You can come in, by the way, make yourself at home.”

“Surely that’s an exaggeration,” says Aziraphale. After a moment of hesitation, he crosses over the threshold with something approaching caution. “He can’t have cried for nine hours straight.”

“You’d imagine,” says Crowley, far enough into his flat that Aziraphale doesn’t know where he is. “Feels like it’s been forever since I had a quiet moment.”

**Author's Note:**

> all my fills are coming in late bc the au week fell on my exam week ;w; day two, prompt neighbours. brought to u by my cats waking me up with their crying. have a good day <3!


End file.
